It's the third time the boss is scolding her today and it's not even lunch time. She's messed up some balance-sheets again: her hands are shaking and she has tears in her eyes. She goes to the bathroom and comes back with reddened eyes and cheeks. We pretend that we're extremely busy, noses shoved into papers. I feel like holding her into my arms to comfort her. I don't, it's a sign of weakness, but I find myself saying in the boss's general direction: what the hell, she could be more careful. The others follow my lead and I'm oddly happy that I've built up my position in the food chain.
Ionuț Morariu
When they lay you into the ground, the most important thing is to be present. Body and soul. Otherwise you're the talk of the town. Jimmy knew that best. He'd died three times before. Of cold feet, of minding other people's business, and now, finally, of stupidity. People got to know his deal. He'd die a little, they'd wash him, watch over him, and he'd come back to life. But the pitcher can't go to the well once to often, nor the dead to the funeral home. He was just removing his soul prosthesis from the roof of his mouth when Nelu drove the stake through his heart. Apparently, dead men don't wink at married women.
Ana-Maria Butuza
Boris sat in the armchair in the dark corner of the room with a bowl of hot soup, determined to follow the nutritionist's instructions: exactly twenty bites. He had been waiting for this moment, he was hungry, so he began to count the spoonful's meticulously. Five, ten, but on the fifteenth spoonful he lost count. Skipping the count, he added two more ladles of soup to the bowl. He sat down again, restarting the count. The attempt had become repetitive, but he continued doggedly until he reached twenty.
(Translated by Alina Bâznă / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.